Little Sister

by MacDonald, Patricia

  Andrew felt a surge of happiness all through him as he went over the plan in his mind. Tomorrow they would be gone. Free. He had never been able to do it alone. It was Francie who gave him the strength. His girl. They would do it together.

  He got into bed, but he could not sleep, and the book that he had suddenly did not interest him. It was as if his veins were filled with an intoxicating drug. He would be free. His mother’s voice, her smell, this house—all of it would be wiped away.

  Let her tell. They would never catch him. Francie would be with him, and there was no end to what they could do. They would take what they wanted and have their own way.

  He sat up in his bed, wide-awake, until dawn. His eyes were open, but he did not see his shabby room. He saw visions of himself and Francie, driving fast, mowing down anyone or anything that tried to get in their way, taking without asking. The images danced in his head, wreathing him in happy contentment, all night long, like visions of sugar plums on Christmas Eve.

  Chapter 13

  BETH WALKED UP TO THE FRONT DOOR and rapped on it with the tarnished brass knocker. A frail old woman with unsmiling eyes opened the door.

  “Good evening. I’m Beth Pearson. I’ve come about my sister.”

  The old woman indicated for her to come in with an impatient gesture. “Frank,” she called out, “the sister’s here.” She indicated a stiff-looking chair in the comer of the dreary living room. “Sit down,” she said. “I’ll get him.”

  Without another word she turned her back on Beth and went down the darkened hallway to the other end of the house.

  Beth sat down on the hard seat and looked around. The room was lit only by dim bulbs in ancient lamps with yellowed shades. A jumble of furniture filled the room, barely leaving a walkway between pieces. Framed sepia-toned photographs hung above the mantel. The only thing in the room that did not look as if it belonged in another century was the giant console TV, which sat opposite the sofa. The top of the TV was thick with dust.

  Beth closed her eyes and rested her head against the scratchy upholstery of the chair. A grandfather clock by the staircase chimed eight o’clock, and Beth was surprised. It seemed much later than that to her. It seemed like one of the longest days she could ever remember.

  After Francie had stormed out, she had wandered the house in a daze for a while. She had tried to call Mike but got only his answering service. Finally she had sat down in the living room and forced herself to go back over the argument with Francie. She had been shocked by her own outburst. She had not really been aware of the ugly, irrational anger she had harbored for so long. From there she progressed backward in her thoughts to the news of her father’s death, the beginning of this visit. Then, like someone picking at a scab, she thought back to her mother’s death and then, farther back, to Francie’s birth. It was like a journey through a jungle, like trying to find a river’s source. She hacked her way back through a tangle of old feelings, old resentments. She had started out with the conviction that she was a good person at heart. After a while, though, she became frightened. Nothing was clear anymore.

  By the time the old man called she had already been watching the clock for several hours, wishing Francie would get back and wondering what she would say to her when she did. The call had unnerved her and then sent her flying out the house.

  Beth heard the shuffle of feet in the hallway coming toward her and then heard the old man say, “Go on. Move.”

  The old woman came in first, shaking her head, as if confronted with a hopeless quandary. Beth stood up.

  “They’re bad,” said the old lady. “They have no morals. What kinds of homes do they come from that they turn out this way?” She did not look at Beth but simply seated herself on the sofa.

  “And a girl,” the woman continued, shaking her head in disbelief. “A girl no less. These days they are worse than the boys.”

  “It’s terrible,” Beth murmured, “although I know she’s never done such a thing before.”

  “Frank,” the old woman barked impatiently. “She’s a bad girl,” said the old woman. “She’s no good. They ought to lock her up.”

  Beth tried to conceal her annoyance at the old woman’s words. She thought about saying something about Francie’s difficult life in her defense, but just then she heard the others coming in.

  She turned and looked. The old man was prodding Francie along with the tip of a cane, and the girl dragged her feet as she walked, her eyes down, her hands tied in front of her with a length of rope.

  Beth stifled a yelp of protest at the sight. “Francie,” she said, “what happened?”

  Francie looked up at her a moment and tried to stick her chin out defiantly. But there was a lack of spirit in the gesture. She looked back down at the floor.

  “I’ll tell you what happened,” said Frank in a peevish voice. “I caught her red-handed in my barn, trying to make off with my money jar. She had it in her hand, so there’s no point in making excuses. She’s lucky I didn’t shoot her. I was mad enough to, I’ll tell you.”

  “You tried to,” Francie muttered.

  The man poked her with the cane. “What’s that?”

  “I just want to thank you,” Beth said hurriedly, “for calling me first, instead of the police. I feel this is a matter we can deal with among ourselves.”

  “It seems like you don’t keep a very good eye on this kid.”

  Beth wanted to insist that the man untie Francie’s hands, but she did not want to make him angry. She quickly decided that diplomacy was in order. “You’re right,” she said, “and there’s no excuse for it. But our household is in a kind of chaotic state right now. Our father just died, and we have no mother—she died years ago—so there’s been a lot of confusion.”

  The old man was unflinching. He turned to Francie and poked her again. “Is this the way you respect your father’s memory—breaking into people’s life savings?”

  “It’s a sin,” said his wife vehemently.

  Francie shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

  Beth fought back the urge to push the old man away and undo the rope. It was a tricky moment. The old man seemed in no hurry to give up his prisoner. Eat a little more crow, thought Beth.

  “It’s a terrible thing,” Beth repeated. “I’m sure Francie will never do anything like this again.”

  “She must be punished,” the old man insisted. “She can’t just walk away Scot-free from something like this. You people must think I’m some kind of a sucker.”

  “She will be,” said Beth, wondering what it was that he wanted before he would let Francie loose. It began to seem less and less as if it were compassion that had kept him from phoning the police.

  “After all,” he said in a whining voice, “I can’t have hordes of people breaking into my business. I’m not insured or anything like that. They come in, and they damage valuable things—not to even mention what they steal and run off with.”

  “Did you find the money?” Beth asked.

  “Yes, I found the money,” he said irritably. “That’s not the point. She broke irreplaceable things in there. It will take me days to get things back in order. Not to mention my nerves. I may not even be able to work for a few days I’m so upset by this…”

  Beth suddenly understood that there was a financial penance involved. “That’s true,” she said, fumbling in her purse for her wallet and feeling glad she had brought some money with her. “I’d feel much better if you’d let me pay you for the damage done.”

  “Those things can’t be replaced. They’re antiques.”

  “I understand that,” said Beth. “And I am sorry. I know that Francie is too. But if you would just allow me to offer you some money to start putting things back to rights…” She pulled out some bills from her wallet and pressed them into the old man’s hand.

  He estimated the amount with a grumpy snort and then exchanged a glance with his wife. Beth quickly leaned over and untied the rope on Francie’s hands as he pocketed t
he money.

  “I don’t care,” said the old woman. “No amount can pay us back for all this worry.”

  Beth began to edge toward the door with Francie straggling along in her grip. “I know. I’m so sorry. Thank you for calling me,” she murmured, pushing the door open with her shoulder.

  The old man followed them out onto the porch. “By rights she belongs in the police station.”

  “Good night,” said Beth.

  The old man slammed the door and turned the porch light off before they were even down the steps. Beth and Francie stumbled in the darkness toward the car.

  Once inside the car Beth turned on the radio. It played softly as they drove along without speaking. After a few miles Beth said in a calm voice, “I know this wasn’t your idea. Where is Andrew? Did he run away and leave you there?”

  “Don’t start on Andrew again,” said Francie in a voice shrill with weariness.

  “I wasn’t,” said Beth. “I’m not.”

  They didn’t say anything else until they got back to the house. Francie went inside and muttered something about going up to bed, but Beth stopped her. The younger girl waited in the kitchen while Beth took off her coat and hung it up. Francie kept her eyes trained on a spot on the floor, her shoulders slumped, as if waiting for a lashing that she knew she had coming.

  Beth came into the room and cleared her throat nervously. She found herself knotting her fingers together like a child about to go on in a school play.

  “I’ll try to pay you the money back,” Francie said in a tired voice.

  “That’s not—never mind that,” said Beth. “Francie, I did a lot of thinking after you left today, and I feel really bad about some of the things I said. I owe you an apology, and I’m very sorry.”

  Francie blinked at her in surprise and then looked wary.

  “I mean it,” said Beth. “That stuff about Mother’s accident. That was—” She shook her head. “Sometimes you just don’t realize the awful thoughts you keep inside. I guess I was really hurt all these years, and I just took it out on you. I mean, blaming you was—well, a terrible thing to do. Now Dad, I’m not so sure—”

  “He felt as bad as I did,” said Francie. “You just didn’t know him.”

  Beth nodded and sighed. “Well, maybe you’re right. I don’t know. I don’t seem to know anything today.”

  Francie pursed her lips, her eyes still on the ground. “I think I’ll go up,” she said.

  “I want you to know,” said Beth, “that I’m truly sorry.”

  Francie nodded and left the room. She didn’t smile, but her face looked less drawn than it had when they walked in.

  Beth sat down in the rocker, feeling relieved that she had at least tried to do the right thing. After a while she picked up a bag on the floor with some work she had for the business and put it on the table to look at it. She wanted to get her mind on something concrete and emotionally uncomplicated, like work. She heard the water running in the upstairs bathroom, and then it stopped. She wondered if Francie would be coming back down, and she forced herself to concentrate on the drawings in front of her.

  A door opened upstairs, and Beth heard Francie call her name. Beth walked toward the foot of the stairs. Francie was hidden from view at the top.

  “Thanks for helping me,” she said.

  “That’s okay,” said Beth.

  She could hear that Francie had not budged. Beth wanted to say something friendly or consoling, but she could not think what it might be. After a few moments the girl’s footsteps receded down the hall, and her door closed. Slowly Beth climbed the stairs, determined to try to start some kind of bridge between them. She walked to the door of Francie’s room and stood outside. Inside, she heard the sound of the girl sobbing.

  The sobs startled her. It was as if she finally had discovered evidence of Francie’s misery. Beth put her hand on the doorknob. She wanted to go in and put an arm around her sister and speak to her. She felt her own loneliness answering the sorrowful sounds from inside the room.

  You hardly know her, she reminded herself. Don’t intrude on her private feelings.

  Telling herself that the girl’s sobs seemed to be quieting down, Beth let go of the doorknob and backed away from the door. With a quiet tread, so as not to be heard, she made her way back down the stairs.

  Chapter 14

  ANDREW HUSTLED UP THE HILL and cut across a field. He knew he would have to hurry if he wanted to catch Francie before her classes started. His plan was to catch her before she went into school. He knew that all the kids waited in the lobby for fifteen minutes to a half hour before the doors opened, so he had to be sure to get there on time.

  He felt he should be tired, having been up all night, but he was tense and full of energy. His mother had been suspicious about his going off early to work, but she had accepted his explanation that he had not put up all the stock because he left early yesterday to cover for Noah. He had wanted to howl in glee when he said good-bye to her, knowing that he would never have to see or be near her again. While he hurried along there was a little skip in his step as he pictured her face when she came home and found him and her precious car gone without a trace.

  He was slightly out of breath but not at all fatigued when he finally reached the single-story building that served as junior high and high school for Oldham and three other nearby towns. It was a plain ocher-colored structure, built in the fifties to accommodate the increase in children that had resulted after the war, even in Oldham, Maine. Andrew had attended the school himself, and he felt a familiar shiver of revulsion as he approached the swinging glass doors that provided entrance to the building.

  As he pushed back the door familiar sounds and smells assaulted him. The odor of pencil shavings and fresh wax mingled with the perfumes and after-shaves of the preening teenagers crammed into the foyer. Their chatter was deafening as they pretended to talk to their friends, all the while flirting and tempting with glances, gestures from beringed fingers, the flexing of young bodies in tight clothes.

  He had never understood it, never been able to join it. Any awkward advances he had made had been mocked. He had been marked from grade school as weird, undesirable. He had always known it, although he tried to pretend that he didn’t, or didn’t care. Now, standing in the crush of the excited students, he felt his breath coming in gasps, and he broke out in a sweat. His clammy hand groped to pull the door open so he could run. Then, suddenly, he remembered. He was here to see his girl. He had a girl. The thought filled him with a creeping warmth. His heartbeat quieted. He looked up at the clock above the door. He had made good time. And his girl was here in this throng.

  One of the teachers came to the inside doors and unlocked them. The students surged into the building, pushing and chattering. Andrew wanted to stop someone and ask him if he’d seen Francie. He wanted to say the words my girlfriend in these halls. He would ask some big, handsome guy. A guy who looked popular.

  Just then he spotted her. She was edging up to the doorway in a crowd of children. They were the babies of the school, who endured the most shoving. They bounced along like pebbles on a tide.

  “Francie,” he called out, waving to her.

  She looked up over the other kids and saw him there, smiling eagerly at her, gesturing to her. She pushed her glasses up on her nose, lowered her head, and pushed a little harder to get through the door.

  Andrew glowered and called her name again, in a harsh voice. But she huddled in among the kids, and there was no doubt this time that she was ignoring him, trying to get away from him.

  Andrew tried to elbow his way past the other students to get to her and caught a girl’s barrette in the fabric of his coat sleeve.

  “Oww…” the girl wailed, reaching for the crown of her head.

  Andrew saw Francie carried through the door, her ash blond hair disappearing into the darkness of the main lobby. He jerked his arm back and forth, trying to free himself of the girl to whom he was fettered by the barr
ette.

  “Cut it out,” the girl shrieked, while her friends yelled, “Stop it,” at him, and one girl tried to undo the clip from his waving arm.

  “Let go of me,” Andrew growled, searching the doorway for the sight of Francie, but she was gone.

  “There,” the girlfriend cried as the barrette popped open and her friend’s hair was loosened from Andrew’s arm. There were tears in the long-haired girl’s eyes as she rubbed her reddened scalp. A clump of her hairs trailed from the arm of Andrew’s coat as he threw down the barrette and started for the door.

  “Don’t say you’re sorry, jerk,” hissed the friend who had undone the clip, but Andrew was already breaking through the last few students who were dawdling on their way into class.

  The main hallway of the building was large and gloomy with the auditorium on one side and the school offices on the other. He looked around, cursing, for he didn’t know where to find her. The corridors branched off the main hallway, and after a moment’s hesitation, he began to rove restlessly up and down them, looking for the eighth-grade signs outside the classroom doors. Teachers were coming out into the hallway and closing their classroom doors as Andrew rushed by, peering into their rooms.

  “May I help you?” asked a crew-cutted teacher coolly as he looked Andrew up and down.

  “No,” said Andrew. “I’m just looking for my—uh—a friend.” He glanced across the hall and saw the sign for O’NEILL, grade 8, lettered on oak tag beside the door. Craning his neck, he saw Francie, seated several rows back by the window.

  “There she is,” he muttered. “’Scuse me.” He hurried over to the classroom door. Mrs. O’Neill was not yet in her classroom, and Andrew stood in the doorway and called Francie’s name. The girl sitting next to Francie nudged her, and Francie looked up and then back down at her desk, her face white.

  “Come here a minute,” Andrew insisted.

  “Go away,” she said.

  “Get out here right now,” he demanded. The buzz in the classroom subsided at the sound of Andrew’s angry voice. Francie hesitated for a minute and then got up and walked out into the hall as the others watched. In a minute the chatter picked up again.